Untitled...?
by Kate C. Massery
Summary: This is untitled because it is only a part of something that I was trying to write. A bit on the angsty side, so consider yourself forewarned.


Author's Note: This is a piece of something that I was trying to write, but it hasn't been agreeing with me, so I decided to just post this little part. It's kind of weird and very angsty, and I apologize for that. But I can't write happy stuff all the time, now can I? Anyway, please read and tell me what you think. It might end up being sort of a…prequel to the other thing that I was trying to write and that this was originally a part of. Whatever. 

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, except for the cowardly villain, and I'm not sure I want him.

The bullet grazed him, but the pain only startled him, making him lose his concentration. The dull, throbbing ache in the back of his head that had been tickling him all morning with the knowledge that the devil was approaching had escalated suddenly into full throttle pain, making him stumble and cry out…But it passed just as soon as it came, riding over him and through him and then carrying him along with it, beyond care and beyond thought. When he raised his head again he saw the wide-eyed "oh shit" look that Hobbes passed him and knew that his own eyes were stained crimson, twin pools of blood…But he had a handle on it, even then, though he was clenching his hands into fists so tight that it left the knuckles white and bloodless. He kept his grip on the madness, fighting away the demon that skittered and crept through his mind just out of reach, but not for long. The glance that Hobbes had turned in his direction nearly cost him more than he was willing to pay; the assassin took this split-second chance and leapt forward, knocking the smaller agent to the ground with a blow from his fists. 

Darien saw the barrel leveled at his partner's heart where he lay spitting blood on the pavement, saw how the steel glittered in the harsh sun…the monster within him chose that time to tear loose from his grasp, and he let the last of his sanity slide through his fingers like water…With a strangled, guttural shout he threw himself against the man with a speed and strength that was never his when sane. The assassin was surprised at this movement, but his surprise soon turned to terror when he saw the cruel glint in the blood-red eyes hovering over his own. With a horrified cry the man twisted underneath him, struggling to get up and to run, abandoning himself to the cowardly instinct of flight. Darien did not give him the chance. 

Hauling the man up by the throat, he smiled wickedly at the stark terror in his eyes. Then he began to squeeze, the skin under his hand darkening from red to purple as the man gagged, kicking and jerking feebly at the hands that clutched him in their inexorable grip. Dimly Darien sensed Hobbes grabbing his shoulder, trying to pull him away, but Darien brushed him aside with the ease and indifference of swatting a fly. But this small distraction had caused him to lesson the pressure on the man's throat, so that a stream of garbled syllables poured out of the tortured mouth.

The man was begging for his life, pleading for Darien to show some mercy…but his last shred of humanity had fled like a bird on the wing, and he felt no pity. Only laughter, callous and harsh, bubbled up within him. The man stank from his desperate run and from the sheen of cold terror-sweat that left a slick shine on his cheeks and forehead. Darien felt his adam's apple sliding against his palm as the man swallowed hard, his eyes bulging while a thin trickle of sweat seeped down the creases of his neck and puddled against Darien's fingers. Darien laughed at his fear, at the fear of all men, even himself and of Hobbes…fear of death, fear of shame, fear of rejection…it all came down to this: one man begging while another man put him out of his misery. For life was misery. His own life was a miserable, pathetic existence eked out through following the capricious will of others. He was angered by this, angry that he could allow himself to be poked and prodded, pushed and pulled, shoved in any direction that they saw fit. Angered that his life was nothing but a long list of restrictions that he followed with the blindness of a dumb animal. And he was angry that Hobbes too was treated in this way, angry that people like this terrified little shit in his hands could even think of pulling a gun and ending a life when the choice was not theirs. He never stopped to consider that what he was doing was just a reversal of the same action, never thought that even in his so-called heightened awareness he too was a slave…a slave first to fear, and then to anger. In his warped mindset, he considered it justice. This little shit deserved to die for not seeing the ridiculousness of his own existence and for trying to take that ridiculousness away from someone who deserved it more than he did.

Darien squeezed until the man's lips turned blue and his eyes rolled back into his head. Then he dropped him, letting the body slide to the ground in a graceless heap. Hobbes stood a few feet away, his gun gripped tight in his hands and pointed unwaveringly in front of him, but his stance was unsure. He did not want to shoot, did not want to deprive his partner of life because he saw him as a friend and life as something to look forward to in the mornings. Darien dared him to pull the trigger, called him a fool and a coward because he was afraid to see his partner's blood splattered on the pavement. He lifted his arm, the arm that had been wounded by the inept assassin's bullet. The sleeve of his T-shirt was torn and darkened with blood. He showed the blood to his partner, wanting him to see how easy it was to make it seep in slow runnels down his arm, leaving red trails across the tanned skin. He dared Hobbes to shoot, wanting him to, needing him to, desperate to see some sort of sanity in his partner that was lacking in himself…desperate to know that someone else's life was not guided by fear. But Hobbes was afraid to pull the trigger, though the metal was hitched against his thumb, ready to click against the underside of the barrel while the world echoed back the reverberations of the gunshot…Hobbes was afraid of losing his friend, regardless of the cold, callous anger at everything living and breathing and running in mindless ruts that lurked in the scarlet stained eyes. Hobbes also ran in a rut, and so did Darien, but this was the one time when Darien was conscious of wanting to be free of it, free of one rut so that he could leap into the biggest rut of them all: death. 

But Hobbes could not bring himself to do it, and so Darien strode towards him with bald fury in his eyes, his hands reaching…_Then_ the bullet tore through him, dropping him in his tracks. Hobbes leaned over him, staunching the blood flow from the wound with his hand while he reached into his coat pocket with his other and drew out his cell phone. Darien was hardly able to see his face because of the glare of the sun high above. The sunlight gleamed on the dull plastic in Hobbes' hand, turning the end of the phone into a patch of white fire that flickered and danced before his eyes, like the flickering and dancing of the minute bits of silica in the asphalt that was coarse against his cheek. A thin stream of blood slipped out from his side and went sliding away down the pavement, and he watched it in fascination, feeling no pain, no fear, no anger, only peace and emptiness. He was conscious of whispering "thank you" before falling away into darkness.


End file.
